All posts by J.D. Brayton - Author

About J.D. Brayton - Author

J.D. Brayton is an artist, musician and writer residing in Maryland – just downwind of the gusty miasma known as the Nation’s Capital. He writes historical fiction, short stories. His Post-Gonzo Crime Pulp novels ‘The Clabber Grrrl’s Retreat’, EYE SKIN, 'THRIP' and historical fiction : The Light Horse are available on, Barnes & Noble and wherever books are sold.

The Light Horse- the new novel by J.D. Brayton- short synopsis

Light Horse Mock 2

The Light Horse – Historical Fiction

The Light Horse is the story of two men who join forces to capture one of the most dreaded murderers in history; one man driven by sworn duty, and the other man by vengeance; a psychological thriller based on documented fact, written after years of research into this compelling and nearly unbelievable chapter in the true history of 19th century British occupied India.

While no one knows for certain, it is estimated that in the 18th and 19th centuries there were no less than 50,000 unsolved murders in north-central India. By other estimates, more than one million died at the hands of a secret cult of murderers known as the Thugee. The indisputable fact is that for centuries entire caravans of innocent travelers in India would simply disappear without a trace. There were the usual reasons offered, any or all of these may have been a factor – but the truth was far more macabre, gruesome and horrifying. It was cold, calculated mass murder – carried out with methodical precision by a cult devoted to the goddess Kali.

In the year 1829, Captain William Henry Sleeman, an officer in service to the British East India Company, began to suspect a pattern to these disappearances. After capturing and deposing suspected cult members, he convinced the Governor, General Lord William Bentinct, to appoint him head of the newly formed Department of Dacoity and Thugee. Sleeman quickly discovered that all the rumors were true: The Thugee, a secret cult of clever and stealthy murderers, were responsible for stalking and slaughtering hundreds of travelers each year on the lawless frontier roads of India. The Thugee were masters of deception. The cult was so secretive and brutal that the modern term ‘Thug’ survives to this day.

When a Thug named Fandoor Das Gupta allows himself to be captured by Sleeman’s Hunters, a new twist to the drama unfolds. The Thug, an admitted murderer, is also a remarkable artist who, by perfect recall, draws portraits of wanted criminals with a degree of accuracy that astounds Sleeman and his officers. Fandoor, in return for a temporary commutation of his death sentence, promises to become an informer and help Sleeman find the dreaded and wily Feringeea, ‘Prince of Thugs’. His intimate knowledge of Feringeea’s hiding places, the fact that he is an adoptive brother to the murderous criminal, and his superior talent as an artist makes Fandoor Das Gupta extremely useful to Sleeman. The Colonel conditionally agrees to Das Gupta’s offer to lead him to capture Feringeea, the most vicious Thug in all of India. Colonel Sleeman has no idea that the Thug artist, Fandoor Das Gupta, has a secret agenda –he wants to  kill The Prince Of Thugs with his own hands once he is secure in Sleeman’s prison. Because of the murder of Feringeea’s scorned wife, Kali Bibi a high priestess of Kali, who was also the artist’s secret lover, Fandoor Das Gupta is willing to give up everything, including his freedom and his life, to avenge her death.

The Light Horse is a meticulously researched novel set in 19th century British India. This bold adventure novel will appeal to readers interested in British Military History, life as an Anglo/Indian trooper in an Irregular Light Cavalry unit, true crime mysteries, and military tactics and armament. It is written in the style of   roman à clef; using factual persons and events, and warmly rendered in the style of a classic historical fiction.

It will be published by Booklocker Press, and available in Early April as an Ebook.

Please visit for excerpts and other short writings.

Thank-you for supporting Independent Writers and Artists








NOTHING- excerpt from The Light Horse


Nothing- Excerpt from The Light Horse © J.D. Brayton 2020

Gwailor Province, India – 1839

At first light, Anil tethered the male goats together, laying a satchel of feed and goatskin full of water across the back of the nervous colt for the journey to the temple. Few words passed between the priest of Kali and I. The sun was just above the horizon.

Before he and one sadhu departed, he gave us all a blessing, bowed slightly, and bid us farewell. “I’ll see you in two days’ time at the house of Purusram.” Then he looked over at one of the sadhu, an emaciated creature, naked and burned black from the sun, standing beneath the tree, arms outstretched, in ecstatic prayer.

“This man is Nothing. Nothing is blessed by our Mother and covered by the ash of cremated pilgrims. Nothing will remain with you. Nothing will protect you, Fandoor.”

“I do not want him here.”

“Nothing is not a choice. Nothing is guided by dharma. He is a blessed soul. Bindachul Ke Jae, Fandoor Das Gupta. May Bhowanee guide you.”

“Bhowanee Ke Jae. A safe journey, honored Kala Ram.”

I stood watching the dust of Kala Ram and his remaining sadhu, who walked behind him leading the goats. Kala Ram himself led away the prize colt by a simple rope halter. They sang invocations as they disappeared beneath a rise in the trail. I was happy he was gone, but certain he was an augury not to be ignored. Taking my prize colt and breeding males was a small price to pay to be rid of his prying eyes and chastising tongue.

I looked at Nothing under the tree. Anil stood chewing betel nut with Lakmel, who was wordlessly brushing the dust from the coat of my stallion, Kala, with a comb.

“Lakmel, feed the sadhu some chapatti and dal. Leave him fresh water.Otherwise, ignore him.” Lakmel laughed a little and spit red juice into the dust. “We must ignore Nothing now.”

“Careful, Lakmel,” I said, my irritation giving way to mocking, “Nothing will hear you, and Nothing may place a curse on your head.”

“We should all be so lucky.”

“He is mad and blessed of the Mother.”

“His stink alone could fertilize the tree.”

“He is Nothing. Remember, Lakmel. Nothing is our guest and Nothing our gift.”

“The new priest is generous in leaving us Nothing.”


The Light Horse – a new novel by J.D. Brayton

Coming in April 2020


From ‘The Light Horse’ by J.D.Brayton


And in the trees of Bengal, the shokun sat perched – as they had from the beginning of time – and waited for sustenance and sanction, hunched forward on bare branches, holding their wings aloft in the dry heat, always in preparation for another sacred cleansing feast of flesh.

The cries of the shokun call out, bathed under endless sun:

What fool invents history?

Death is yet another beginning. Life is naught but illusion

carried on the wings of carrion birds.

©2020 J.D. Brayton

Release in March- e-book and print


THRIP- dedication page, (pre-release)



For Patrice and Ruby

This novel began as a series of joke haiku between Patrice and I as a result of our shared and somewhat bizarre experiences living in Ty-Ty, Georgia in 1970. I consider her my sister in humor, creativity and soul. She shared her stories of being a Homebound instructor for sick children and I was moved by the dedication and fortitude it takes to educate and to bear the burden of knowing many students in such programs will not survive. Hope is life. By extension, I dedicate this novel to all educators and all who illuminate what might otherwise be a dark world.

Also: to my daughter Ruby who used her skills as a researcher to help me with many of the facts involving gun violence in the United States. We must do better. Our children are not sacrificial lambs, they are our only hope for a verdant future.


January 2020

Author’s Forward- EYE SKIN

Author’s Forward- 2nd Printing

 ‘Reality is a cliché from which we escape by metaphor.’

~ Wallace Stevens ~

There is a sickness in the United States; endemic, chronic and defined by actions rather than legalities. Racism is rooted deep within the national character, its origins explained by the basest of human instinct—the need to identify with one’s tribe, family, bloodline— the need for security in ‘sameness’, the need to protect the tribe from others who might take that which has been gathered, hunted or assumed by the dignity of scrum. It doesn’t take a social scientist to explain that we, as a tribal species, haven’t changed that much. We try. There have been huge appreciable gains brought about by heroes and common people; they who refused the threnody of marginalization. All of humanity struggles with nature, nurture, logic and jingoism. Survival is the prime directive when fear entraps the entropic. Daily vicious displays of a bellicose judicial system numb our collective psyche. Objectivity is a learned trait, it delays mere instinct, it fights ignorance with the need to gather knowledge instead of settling for a fresh kill, cultivates understanding instead of territorial boundaries, offers sanctity beyond religiosity. We, as Americans, struggle with the legacy of slavery. Guilt does ugly things to the human psyche— the need for Americans to rationalize or to equivocate in the face of our nation’s embrace of human bondage is formidable—and for many—inescapable. The sins of our forebears rest heavily on our shoulders. Our leaders offer clichés and talking points when only fundamental spiritual transformation, the most difficult of challenges as individuals, is what is necessary in order for our country, our collective tribe, our national identity, to ultimately transmogrify into a truly free society.

Talk is cheap.

In the final analysis—this novel is just a bit of fiction, not a philosophical manifesto. I’m a writer not a pontificate. At best—words as a creative outlet, can influence a reader in positive ways. Words can inform, allude and collide with forgone conclusions. (That—and entertain.) The rest is up to all of you.

Evolution is not painless.

Never take a freedom for granted.


Ritual- excerpt from EYE SKIN



The service is short and to the point, neither he nor Marian were overtly religious. There was a Baptist deacon who chuntered an excised  Protestant liturgy; he was paralytic, barely hears any of it. Terser acquiesced to the needs of Marian’s family to ritualize – in truth he had no strength to resist, because none of the sights, shambolic churring of hymns or comforting prayers could shake him out of the ellipses of shock.

          Marian? Dead? Why was I at work? Why didn’t I make love to you every moment of every day? How could I have ever made you sad?

 Sitting with his arm around Clive he retreats into a sepulchral hollow where all words are static, all handshakes like desperate swats. Grim expressions of condolences masking quiet terror of mortality- the winged chimera mankind has been taught to resist, (fear not) rise above (fear not), disdain,(fear not) until it consumes hope in a moment, fully, completely —all piety tenebrous, and all veracity fastuous, (fear not) grey is the only color that matters—all cliché rings true, His one stipulation was that there be only the apricity of live flowers – big yellow daisies, bold red poppies, orange roses—only plants that smiled, reminding him of the light in Marian’s nitid eyes, after she made a corny joke, after they made love, she burned biscuits up at the cabin — Terser could bear nothing reeking of sadness or finality. Everything else around him filled those euphotic parameters.

In the pews: Clive’s grandparents sat to his left —Jason and Carol Broussard from her first marriage to William ‘Bully’ Broussard. The ex-father-in-law making no attempt to hide his tears, weeping for a daughter-in-law and his son now gone. The ex-mother-in-law wearing dark glasses, dry lips trembling, seeing in her mind Marian and Bully in the peach orchard, certain she was now rejoined in a Christian heaven with her heroic son killed in Kuwait, somber, post-lachrymal, speechless, except for answering bromidic dipthong , the King James Concordance, (fear not) the catafalque, the well-crafted asperity designed for the necessary comfort to guide the speechless, the mourners, the ones who cry as much for themselves as the ones honored.

Jerry and Evangeline Long, Marian’s parents, sat in the pew behind him. He could feel the grief sapping Jerry’s antagonism. He knew Jerry would certainly be drunk by now—facing emotion other than malapert derision was not a strength her father ever developed. Evangeline led Jerry in the prayers, speaking loudest, making a courageous showing of it. The thought of her little girl dying so brutally, impossible to conjure. Thankfully, she and Jerry requested a closed casket. Charlie Terser agreed. Marian’s parents knew that he identified her remains at the morgue,  nothing can fix that. Terser sits, holding Clive’s hand, frozen externally, internally shambolic, staring straight ahead, praying that the service be over, and at the same time begging  it would never end. He floats above it all, watches himself sitting in the pew, hovering above the mourners, a futile supernal shadow, culling dreams, death’s reality, still-life pictures of Marian’s every facial expression, her body clothed, her body naked, resplendent in the morning sun,  her laugh amicable and discursive, her words of love broken into phrases about the trees, snakes, biscuits, art, horses, paint colors, country songs, his mud covered boots on her freshly waxed floor, all three of them laughing under the Christmas tree, her bitching about prices of groceries, standing silently watching the stream tickle the earth, chewing red licorice, filling her lungs with sweet mountain air, her hair done in a twist- smiling, ever smiling, crying over a dead goldfish, a gerbil or movie star, laughing at ruined bunt cakes or burnt toast, collapsing on the bed beside him, their first apartment, exhausted after un-packing moving boxes. I love you, Charlie. I love you, Marian and I love Clive. I’ll never leave you, not ever. Unless I need to work. Unless I need to find lost people (fear not), unless I need to read memos (fear not), unless there are cases to solve(fear not). Only then. Never, ever – except—(I am afraid.)

Dust thou art, and to dust ye shall return.

 Standing in the receiving line, shaking hands with family, colleagues, people he’d never met or seen. A deacon for whom he felt the urge to choke with his pedantically appropriate neck-tie. Now it was Zip at his side, with Lonnie from the office. “Charlie we have to talk. Maybe. Tomorrow.” She puts her hand on his shoulder, looks him full in the eyes, gives him a mournful punctuated hug. “Please, I’m so sorry about the timing. It’s that urgent.” “Clive buddy, go see pap and nana for a minute, okay?”

Clive  starts walking , the expression on his face unchanged since his mother’s death.

 “I didn’t mean now Charlie, god…all of this.” Zip said apologetically. “I need a strong drink, can I get a witness?’ “I have something in the car.” Offers Lonnie.

Yes, Terser nods, yes. “I need some air.”

Walking to the parking lot, Charlie tries not to look anywhere but up, at the sky. Lonnie hands him a fifth of bourbon. “I don’t have a glass, boss. Sorry.” He holds the bottle a moment; the last time he drank anything stronger than a beer was at last year’s Christmas party; even less to celebrate now. His heart told him this: brace yourself for a long re-acquaintance. “What is important, Zip?” He swigs, winces. It burns less than  grief.

Zip rolls her eyes, unsure how to get the words out. “They have a suspect in custody. And it gets worse.” Terser doesn’t blink, still feeling the bourbon burn.  “It’s J.J.” she nearly whispers. “…it looks like a set-up, Charlie. A plant of the…excuse me…what…um.” “The gun?” “No, Charlie.” Lonnie broke in; “…the other…thing.” “My god.” “Charlie…it could have waited, I didn’t want this now, today, here.” “You mean they have him? He’s being held?” “Charlie, they haven’t formally charged him. They arrested him at the airport leaving town.” “I knew that was a probability, him leaving town…but this other thing, they found the bat? Where?” “Behind his motel. He didn’t have any luggage. All his belongings were just as he left them in his hotel room.” “Guns?” “No guns I know of. The detectives called me and asked if I had any idea where J.J.’s truck was. They said you weren’t answering your door or your phone. Listen, Charlie…” She starts, watching with mounting anxiety as Terser took another solid get-me-smashed gulp from Lonnie’s bottle, patting him on his arm, gently , she takes the bottle away, hands it to Lonnie.

“…all the rest will wait until tomorrow. It just has to. You need to be with Clive. Why don’t both of you come stay with Tyler and me again tonight?” Terser feels the alcohol quicken inside. “No. Thanks, but no. Clive is going with Marian’s folks for a few days.” “Well you know the offer stands, what about you?” “It’s the best thing for Clive.” “Yeah, but boss…what about you? Don’t choose to be alone.”

 Terser returns a funny slant, a hurt smirk. Zip is apprehensive, she never saw Terser drink hard liquor from a bottle.

“It’s best I be alone now; Zip, Lonnie. Thanks. Everyone has been gracious. Kind. I need to make it through another forty-five minutes of this and then…” he trails off; “…then I guess I’ll see.” “Charlie. You shouldn’t drive. Please. You shouldn’t be alone.” Terser nods, ignores, looks away, and starts for the  funeral chapel, wordlessly brushes her cheek with the back of his hand in passing.

 I’m not alone. I have Marian.

©2020 J.D. Brayton

The Cure: Excerpt- from EYE SKIN


The Cure

One second after sedationThe canal looked as if a cracker farmer had gotten hold of murk green algae water colors and lay it all down in a stream of hella hot Miami wax candle batik paused in primordial ooze molting cinder block sparkle jalousie glazed fish-egg spawn before the gods would have it rain all the pain away before the same old dawn in stink of unbegotten garbage filled with a variety of tattle-tail colored vipers grass snake varieties and mixed nay castigated with hot maraschino pepper cherries with no scheming nudiustertian toddler croissant covered sugar-coated cop mothers in deep deep deepest yesterwind. I’m home to visit. Stopwatch. Calloused crimped hazelnut brown eyes floating down the Miami river, afire, goats and horses burning from the melted wax at her little perfect innocent Lula feet. Burn Baby Burn. Momma. Agony. Unstill. Find my fingers. I know they are around here somewhere.

“Daddy drove the bus.”

“Ms. Liye?”

“Daddy drove a bus.”

“Ms. Liye?”

“Daddy drove his bus.”